Thursday, February 19, 2015

Sisyphus

Well. When the world thinks this girl is chubby…

I am at a loss for words.

Well, no, that’s not true. I always have words.

That woman is a size six and apparently, she is considered fat.

My middle child is being a little shit lately. He refuses to follow the most normal of directions (sit at the table, eat dinner, get dressed, brush your teeth), whether they are delivered with joy (“time to brush your teeth, my little monkey!!!”) or anger and frustration (“Jamie! For the last time, GET DRESSED!”). Consequences mean nothing to that kid. This morning he lost his brand-new floor puzzle and the treat that usually comes after swimming. He was put in time-out.

I am ashamed of myself. I yell SO MUCH at that kid. I lose my temper with him every damn day. I am so tired. I am so frustrated. I don’t want to make him feel badly, and I know he does when I yell, but I just can’t seem to help myself. We have a deadline in the morning and he flatly refuses to get dressed. He went to school today in the same pajamas he wore all night. He won. I am supposed to win.

What’s worse is that the mornings I take half-off (I go to my Rotary meeting at 7 and Tony gets the kids ready for school, then I come home to pack their bags and take them to school), I come home from my meeting to three kids who are fed, dressed, have their teeth brushed, have put on shoes, and are playing nicely. It’s demoralizing that Tony can get them totally set every time and I struggle on a daily basis.

And then he looks like this when he sleeps and my heart melts.

You would think I wouldn’t have time in between nursing and changing a baby, feeding and hustling the kids through our morning routine, and yelling about that routine to look in the mirror and hate my reflection, but I do. Fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat. Pimply. Bad hair. Bad clothes. Fat.

And no end in sight. Tonight, I will take them to swim lessons, where I will overheat in the humid poolside air, my sweaty hair plastering to my skull, my blood pressure climbing as I futilely try to get Charles and Jamie to stop running in the locker room (someone’s going to crack his skull one of these days) and change while simultaneously managing a squirming baby. I will come home and make dinner that the kids will complain about so masterfully that I will begin to wonder if it really does taste awful and I’m the one who’s crazy for enjoying it. By the time I finally get my pajamas on after corralling the kids and doing all the dishes and prepping lunch and schoolbags for the next day and feeding laundry through the system, I will look at myself in the mirror and wonder how anyone could allow themselves to leave the house looking like I do. I am angry at them for being so aggravating and I am angry at myself for being so repulsive.

It sounds like our 3.5-year-old tyrants are at the same stage. Milo has taken to screaming the scream of the damned whenever I cross him. I walk away, but he follows me and throws things at me. I am now flinching any time he picks up a hard object and holds it over his head. I just have to remind myself that Ruary was an asshole at this age, too. And now he is the voice of reason... go figure.